


OSHA Compliance For The Chronically Lovesick

by Vulcanodon



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: AU, And Richie is just a big mess, Comedy Clubs, Eddie is a Health and Safety Supervisor, M/M, Memory Issues, New York, Slow Burn, brief allusion to domestic abuse, health and safety, stan is alive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 12:49:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21036503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulcanodon/pseuds/Vulcanodon
Summary: Richie Tozier is going to open the best damn comedy club in New York if his Health and Safety supervisor doesn’t kill him first. Richie lies a lot, mostly to himself, and Eddie wears a yellow hard hat. They both still hate clowns.Or, Mike never calls them back to Derry, but they all manage to find each other anyway.





	OSHA Compliance For The Chronically Lovesick

**Author's Note:**

> This fic came about because I genuinely thought that being a risk analyst was a fancier version of a health and safety officer. I still don’t know what a risk analyst is, and I have looked it up over ten times now. Also my own internal rules for the memory loss is that the remembering was specifically triggered by being reminded of Derry by Mike in those phone calls. Simply put, no Mike call: no recall. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I know nothing about the comedy world, finances, New York, renovations, construction in general, permits or Health and Safety regulations of any kind. All research has been through Google so please take that into consideration. The club is vaguely based off a combination of New York institutions, The Comedy Cellar and The Gotham Comedy Club so check those out if you need inspiration. And as always, tell me what you think!

**Twenty- Seven Years Later**

Richie walks onstage into a sea of bright lights and delivers one of the best performances of his _life_, wielding the microphone like it’s a magic fucking wand. For once no one heckles, he doesn’t stumble over a single punchline; there’s just the laughter, that validating rush and they love him, they love him, _they love him so much._

When he staggers through the door of his apartment around 2AM later that night, still drunk from the afterparty, he checks his phone and the only missed call is from his manager. He’s left a voicemail and Richie listens to it as he falls into bed with his clothes still on.

_You’ve done it again Tozier, great job kid and call me back because you’re about to go big time…._

* * *

About a year after that he’s living in New York and his career is over. Not just over but embarrassingly and tragically over, a belly flop into the deep end of a pool that Richie hadn’t realised was drained that morning.

Richie hadn’t seen it coming at all, he’s always been near-sighted, so he spends most of his time sitting shell-shocked on the floor of his horrible expensive new flat. After years of being booked up, scheduled, having his time managed, he’s all at once adrift at the age of forty-one. Just another sad-sack New Yorker. It’s almost a relief when he gets the call from his new accountant asking him to come in for a consultation. It gives him a reason to be up and showered before the afternoon at the very least.

His accountant’s office is nice; an old brownstone with leather chairs and tasteful décor and Richie is offered a drink when he sits down.

“A coffee please. Black.” He says, resisting the urge to ask for something stronger.

It is, after all, not even noon yet, and besides, there’s something about his accountant’s soft curly hair and neat tie that would make Richie feel bad about showing what a mess he really is.

_I’m not mad,_ that tie says, _I’m just disappointed._

He’s met with Stanley Uris maybe three times since hiring him in a panic after all the shit went down. Somehow, he still hasn’t lost the ability to make Richie feel like he’s trying not to worry a kindly but strict grandmother.

“Richie, I’ve been looking over your finances.” Stanley says, straight to the point. “And frankly you’re in trouble.”

Richie knows this so he just nods.

“You’re tied into this apartment for what, two years?” Stanley asks, checking his notes. “And while you’ve got a fairly large amount of savings, I think I’m right in guessing that your previous stream of revenue has dried up.”

“You mean I’m not getting any gigs.” Richie clarifies flatly.

Stanley pauses and for a moment looks genuinely sorry for him.

He leans forward in his chair. “Are you?”

Richie groans a little and rubs at his eyes behind his glasses. “Not ones that will pay for the apartment. _No one_ will touch me now. With or without the ten-foot pole.”

“So, you’re already eating into your savings.” Stanley says softly. “Have you thought about getting another job? Outside of comedy?”

“I did a _liberal arts degree_. And barely made it through that. I’ve been doing stand-up all my life. I’m trained for fucking _nothing.” _Richie says, with maybe a bit too much drama.

Stanley sighs. “Well you could take out some loans. Go and re-train in some other career. Or…”

“Or?” Richie asks desperately, suddenly terrified at the prospect of being a middle-aged student weighed down by debt he’ll never repay.

  
“You could invest in a business. Maybe get on the property ladder; start renting. Get in on the ground floor of something.”

“Or….” Richie says slowly, another option suddenly occuring, insane but somehow _perfect_. “Or I start _my own_ business. A club, a, fucking comedy club! Right here in New York. I could buy an old building, renovate it, somewhere nice but not too classy…”

“I don’t think- “Stan tries to say, but Richie has the ball now and it’s _rolling._

“Something old-school with those nice tables lamps and a good bar. Not too expensive, we want it to be for everyone, and it wouldn’t just headlining the big names we could give the younger kids a chance too. I could use my old contacts, most of them still like me.” Richie goes on, rambling now, and he can see it in his head, the club _and him at the microphone, still getting laughs._

“This would be a massive financial risk; the costs would eat up literally everything you have and then some.” Stanley tells him, alarmed. “You would have to take out _so many_ loans…. this isn’t a solution; this is a _disaster waiting to happen_. Not to be unprofessional.”

Richie takes in a deep breath and realizes that for the first time in weeks, he’s actually _excited _for something. 

“Stanley, listen. I know I literally just thought of it, but I think it could work. I really, really do.” Richie says, almost pleading.

He thinks about going home after to this to his empty fucking apartment, his empty fucking _life_, sitting down and watching another bowl of cereal in front of a Will and Grace re-run. It feels like staring down into his own grave.

_In memory of Richard Tozier, 1976 to 2017_. _Told some jokes and died alone._

Stanley looks at him a long time and then over at his bird calendar, as if the White Throated Rock Thrush will give him guidance in this difficult time. 

Then he sighs in defeat.

“Okay. _Fine._ But if I’m going to help you with this, you might as well call me Stan.”

* * *

Sometimes Richie thinks back to that morning with a sense of nostalgia. From that moment on his life had been almost utterly consumed by panic, not to mention stomach ulcers and complicated financial mumbo-jumbo and, worst of all, the New York property market, which was code for _hell on fucking earth_. But now, six months later, he can almost see the light at the end of the tunnel. They have the location and the permits and renovations are finally, _finally_ almost over. He could realistically be opening sometime in the next month and the thought is exhilarating, but it also makes Richie want to throw up every time he lingers too long on it.

He takes the same route to the building site that he does every morning, holding a cup of coffee in a death grip as he gets off the subway. Richie has somehow become one of those disgusting people who gets up routinely at six AM because there’s just _so much to do_, so many people asking about this light fixture or that wallpaper, or more usually, bills that Richie has failed to pay.

It’s a nice walk though, even for the pigeon-infested hellscape that is New York and he got _so lucky_ with the place he found in the end, right on the edge of West Village and at a bargain for Manhattan prices. An actual, old school cellar complete with genuine brick walls, it had come with a café attached above, art deco and gorgeous. Gorgeous and also pretty disgusting because this property had been on the market for _years_ and time had not been kind. The first time Richie had gone down into the cellar an actual rat had run over his foot and for a moment he had thought about getting on the next plane back to L.A.

Rats aside though, it was something close to a miracle to find something so perfect in an area like this, not only available but _within budget_.

(“Be honest. Just how bad was the murder that happened here?” He had asked Stan when they had been drawing up paperwork. “Are we talking severed heads on the wall? Torture chambers?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Stan had said diplomatically but then he had paused. “Do you want me to tell you about the ghosts?”

Richie had considered this for a long time before saying, _no thank you_. He had enough to deal with without becoming the main character in a horror movie.)

Now when he crosses the street, he looks at the building with something almost like pride. It’s not finished, they haven’t put up the sign yet, but it’s almost there, it’s almost _something_. He jogs down the steps two at a time and swings in through the door, greeted by the familiar smells of paint and plaster.

“Okay, okay I’m here.” He announces to the room. “Now what’s this about the asshole who’s slowing everything down?”

There’s an awkward silence from the handful of gathered work crew and for the first time Richie notices the stranger in the room, a grumpy looking man in a yellow hard hat, brandishing a clipboard.

Clive, the construction manager who called Richie this morning, looks almost frightened from where he’s cornered up against the bar, which is actually pretty funny because he’s the biggest dude Richie’s ever met and this new guy looks like he could push 5’8 on a good day.

“That would be me.” Hard Hat Dude says, glaring up at Richie with a pair of pretty nice brown eyes. “You must be the _comedian_.”

This last he says with the sort of disgust reserved for serial killers and people who like to kick small kittens onto the freeway.

Despite the clear loathing being generated in his direction, Richie feels a weird kick in his chest, coupled with a distinct sense that he’s forgotten something important.

“You must be our safety guy.” He guesses, trying to shake off the sensation. “Sorry about that. Would you believe me if I said I literally didn’t see you down there?”

* * *

To say they don’t get on is an understatement.

It turns out that there may have, _possibly_, been a few corners that Richie has cut along the way. Nothing major; at the very least he has fire exits. Saying this doesn’t seem to pacify Mr. Clipboard however, who seems to have made it his personal quest to make Richie start drinking in the daytime again.

“This is a cellar so obviously ventilation is an issue.” He’s telling Richie now, sniffing the air like he’s checking for toxic spores. “But I’m more concerned with the lighting right now. That stairway outside? You’re wanting to put what, a neon sign out to light the way? That’s not enough, that’s…that’s a _death trap_.”

Richie has been hearing this, or variations on the word _death trap_, for about two hours now. At first, he had tried to blow him off and push him discreetly out the door, but the guy didn’t even seem to notice. After that Richie had tried to zone him out and nod in the right places but his voice was like a chihuahua barking, all manic energy and waving arms.

He’s given up on trying to outrun him, and now Richie is slumped at his desk in the back office, wishing his coffee hadn’t gone cold.

  
“Look, aren’t you a part of the construction team? Aren’t we all supposed to be on the same side here?” Richie finally asks, a little desperately. “Look, uh… What’s your name again?”

The guy cuts off a rant about ductwork and blinks, looking a little suspicious.

“Kraspbak. Eddie Kraspbak.” He says like he’s a short, grumpy James Bond.

“Look _Kraspback, Eddie Kraspbak_.” Richie says, just to be a dick. “At the end of the day, I appreciate all your weird intensity here, but you work for your boss and your boss works for me okay? So, sign whatever you need to and put up a poster about hand washing in the kitchen, but I really don’t have time for this. I need this place open in a month. Bottom line. So, do whatever you need to do, but please, I’m begging you, let’s try and move this through as smoothly as possible okay? Can you do that for me?”

The guy, Eddie, has somehow shut up for this entire speech but his eyebrows have been slowly sliding up his forehead, giving off the same energy as storm clouds gathering on the horizon.

“Look, I don’t know how the _big shots _in _L.A_ do it.” He begins and Richie is already wincing. “But here in New York we have a little thing called a _Certificate of Occupancy. _You can’t open this place without it, and you can’t get _that_ unless this place is up to code, and you can’t get that without _me_. So, go ahead, talk to my boss if you want but he’s going tell you the exact same thing.”

They have a brief stare off for a moment, Eddie looming over the desk like he’s gonna try and flip it, and Richie feels his heart beating fast, too fast for this stupid fight about fucking _permits_.

“Whatever.” He mutters finally, breaking off eye contact. “Give me a list. I’ll make sure all your stupid boxes get ticked.”

Eddie nods sharply and backs off and suddenly Richie can breathe normally again. 

“Nice hat by the way.” He calls out when Eddie walks away, even though it’s huffy and childish. “Wouldn’t want a brick to fall on your head or anything.”

“This hat,” Eddie almost spits back over his shoulder, “is _regulation_.”

* * *

“Why do we need this guy again?” He complains to Ben over the phone that evening. “I mean, I thought you had all this stuff in hand. Your crew are great, it’s been going so well, we don’t need some hardass with a guideline fetish slowing everything down.”

It makes him annoyed to sound this whiney, but the list thrust at him before Eddie left for the day was not only exhaustive but fucking _endless_. With all the various safety measures and precautions, it could be another _six months_ before they could start making money. Six months that Richie couldn’t afford, both financially and honestly _mentally_ at this point.

“What can I tell you, “Ben tells him down the line, “I’m just the architect. I design stuff but I can’t do the nitty gritty. Skylines I can do but when it comes to asbestos or whatever I’m pretty useless. I’m not even usually _involved_ at this point.”

“I know you like me too much to stay away.” Richie jokes, and that might be a little bit true now he thinks about it.

If finding the property was a miracle then finding Ben was the heavens opening up and the hand of God coming down for a high five. They had first met just after Richie had made the plunge and bought the building. New keys in hand, he had been standing in the shell of the coffeeshop upstairs with the sunlight streaming in through the dusty windows and then out of nowhere the door had been pushed open.

At first Richie had thought it was the ghost that Stan still threatened to tell him about sometimes, but then a big dog had trotted inside, followed by one of the most handsome men Richie had ever seen.

“Um, hello?” Richie had said, wondering vaguely if he was a _Congratulations on Your Real Estate_ _Purchase!_ kissogram. But Richie didn’t have any friends who would do that.

Fuck, he barely had any friends, _period_.

“Hi.” Ben had said, looking more interested in the plasterwork than in Richie. “Sorry, I know this is weird, but I’ve been walking past this place for years, every time I visit New York, and someone told me it had been sold?”

“Yeah.” Richie said, jiggling the keys. “To me.”

The dog nosed at his hand and Richie had patted it absent-mindedly, confused at where this was going.

  
Ben had hummed, running his finger up a dusty mirror.

“Can I ask what you’re going to do with it? I just…I really love this building.”

The building was nice outside, but the architecture wasn’t that stand out, unless you were a big fan of the stone turtles carved into the pediments. But hey, Richie wasn’t really an artsy person, what did he know about good architecture?

“I’m renovating. I want it to be a club. Uh, a comedy club.” Richie had said and saying it out loud and looking round at the wreck of a building he had suddenly realized the enormity of what lay ahead, the huge amount of _effort_ it was going to require.

“Oh, that’s amazing! That’s perfect actually.” Ben had enthused, a big puppy-dog smile lighting up his face and Richie blinked, caught in the headlights of pure attractiveness. “Look, maybe this is insane, I know I just walked in off the street but here, this is my card. I’m actually an architect, this isn’t what I normally do but I would _love_ to work with you on this if you need someone. Please tell me you’ll at least think about it.”

Richie had taken his card, thinking _okay whatever weirdo_, but that night after five minutes of Googling he had made the call.

“Ben Hanscom?” Richie had practically yelped down the phone. “The Ben Hanscom who designed fucking MOMA extension last year? I can’t afford you dude!”

“That’s me I guess.” Ben had said, sounding kind of surprised about it too. “But listen, I won’t cost you more than anybody else you would hire. I mean I don’t even do renovations; I design stuff, you probably shouldn’t even use me really.”

It kind of takes Richie back how unsure of himself Ben sounds because if _Richie_ had a Wikipedia page basically declaring him as the god of beautiful buildings, then his ego would be the size of the fucking moon.

“Are you kidding?” He had said. “How soon can you start?”

It had turned out that Ben hadn’t been lying, he really _wasn’t_ used to working with existing structures but the two of them had muddled through it together somehow. They had spent a lot of long nights drinking endless cups of coffee, hunched over design plans. Between Richie trying to understand things like _building a brand _and Ben making the transition from working with over fifty floors to working with two, they had made a lot of fuckups along the way. They had also become pretty close and sometimes Richie caught himself thinking how weird it was that in L.A his friends had been endless and interchangeable and now the only people he hung out with was his architect and his fucking _accountant_.

“Anyway, Eddie is a nice guy.” Ben says now, crackling down the line all the way from Nebraska. “He’s just uh, passionate about his job. Give him a chance.”

“Ugh, fine.” Richie says. “I guess it’s just a day or two. I can be yelled at by a hot guy for a weekend. Some people pay money for that. “

There’s a worrying pause.

“Actually, he’s gonna be around for a while.” Ben says in a pacifying sort of way. “We need him on-site for a lot of the finishing touches. Just give him a chance Richie, I think the two of you would get on. He’s weird too.”

“Thank you, Ben, much appreciated.” Richie drawls. “When are you back anyway? I miss your dog.”

“The two of us will be in New York by Friday. Think you can hold off on killing my health and safety supervisor till then?”

“I’ll try extra, extra hard.” Richie promises, as sincerely as he can, and Ben makes a snort of disbelief down the line.

* * *

This does in fact turn out to be a difficult promise to keep. Over the next few days, whether Richie is picking out bar stools, doing endless paperwork or trying to nap under the desk in his office, Eddie is somehow _always there_. If he was just standing around Richie wouldn’t mind (at least then he could just appreciate the eye candy) but he’s nearly always on the warpath about some minor infraction, popping up like a fucking gremlin with his pen _scritch-scratching_ on his clipboard.

Every morning Richie takes a deep breath and looks in his mirror saying_, don’t let him get to you, it’s not worth it, you’re stronger than this_ and then by lunchtime they’ll be having another blowout over imaginary asbestos. All the while the clock is ticking down and Stan is sending him emails with ever more scary subject lines.

“Can you please take the ruler out of your ass for one second?” Richie snaps one day, on four hours of sleep and five espressos. “Not every chair has to be fucking ergonomic! They’re buying drinks and comedy from us, not fucking back support!”

Eddie, who had up until this point been practically squaring off with him, falls back and then his hackles are rising like a cat.

“Is that a gay joke?” he asks, eyes narrowed with suspicion. “I didn’t think you were that lazy with your material, but I guess I overestimated you.”

Richie blinks and his mouth actually falls open.

“Oh. I uh, didn’t know that.” He stumbles. “That you were- I mean I don’t make jokes like that and anyway, I would be allowed if I did. Not that I would. But I’m gay too. Is what I mean. By that.”

He cuts himself off and immediately wants to fucking _crawl under a rock_ because that might have been the most awkward coming-out he’s ever done, and he isn’t sure why he told Eddie anyway. It’s not like it’s a secret but usually Richie likes to keep that stuff private. Or at least he used to.

“Oh, well…” Eddie says and he’s getting red too, maybe just because he’s embarrassed on Richie’s behalf. “Still rude.”

“Yeah. Well you did just call me a ‘reckless Hollywood airhead’ for getting backless barstools.” Richie says defensively, doing the air quotes with his fingers.

  
“I didn’t call you an airhead. That would have been unprofessional.” Eddie mumbles, fiddling with his stupid hat.

“You didn’t say it with your mouth.” Richie shoots back and then Eddie lets out a soft huff of laughter and grins a little.

Maybe it’s because it’s the first time he’s seen Eddie smile but suddenly Richie’s legs feel legitimately weak and then suddenly he doesn’t know what to do with his face or his hands or his _anything_.

“I have uh, stuff to do. In the back.” He says, backing away and then escapes through the fire escape.

It takes two cigarettes before he’s ready to go inside again.

* * *

Realizing he’s attracted to Eddie, like _really_ attracted and not just in the way where he’s Richie’s type, doesn’t make him any less infuriating. In a way it makes the fights worse because now _Richie’s_ the one following _him_ around, making loud comments about how they don’t really need fire extinguishers in the kitchen. He also has to stop himself looking at Eddie’s mouth when they’re snapping at each other, but Richie almost thinks he’s getting away with it until he starts to notice that people have begun vacating rooms when the two of them square off.

With all the tension floating in the air it’s a massive relief when Richie walks in early one morning to see Ben has come back. Richie almost wants to throw himself into Ben’s arms, he’s so happy for the distraction, but at the last moment he sees Ben has company, an elegant and impossibly fashionable redhead. Ben is saying something about the architecture and she’s smiling and nodding with obvious unfeigned interest, but Ben isn’t even looking at where he’s pointing. He’s looking sideways, at her upturned face with a look of such open devotion that Richie almost turns around and walks away. Instead he manages to trip and stub his foot his foot on the doorway.

“_Fuck,_ fuck, shit.” He mutters, clutching what feels like a broken toe and if there was a moment happening here, he’s definitely ended it.

They turn to look at him, startled out of their own little world, and Richie raises his hand in greeting.

  
“Sorry,” he tries to explain. “This isn’t the way I usually make my entrances.”

“Richie!” Ben says, grinning. “I tried to call you! I hope you don’t mind, I just wanted to show Bev what we’ve done.”

Next to him the redhead gives Richie a little wave back, trying to hide her laughter behind her hand.

  
“This place is beautiful. I can’t wait to see it finished,” she says kindly and she really is, _very pretty_.

“Me too honestly.” Richie sighs. “I’m starting to think we’re never gonna get there. But believe me when we do, I’ll send you the first ticket. So, you can witness the disaster in person.”

She laughs and when she pushes her hair back, Richie sees the wedding ring on her hand.

It came as a surprise to him; Ben had never seemed like the type to chase married women. He’d never seemed like the type to chase anyone really.

They chat for a bit and when she leaves, Ben stands in the doorway looking after her like the wife of some sailor staring at the sea.

“Soooo…” Richie wheedles when he’s sure Bev is safely out of earshot. “She seems nice.”

Ben jumps away from the doorway like he’s been caught peeping.

“I met her at a charity dinner,” he mumbles. “She’s a fashion designer. We talked about music a lot. She’s pretty cool I guess.”

“_Pretty cool_. Are you thirteen?” Richie teases him, but gently, because he’s never seen Ben so bashful about anything. “Let me guess, she shares your weird thing for _New Kids On The Block_?”

Ben turns bright red at that, and Richie can’t help but laugh a little.

“That’s a good band.” Ben says, with dignity. “Underappreciated.”

“Not by you.” Richie says. “Or _Bev_, apparently.”

Ben looks at his dog as if hoping she’ll step in and say something.

“Get him Laika,” he pleads. “Go for the throat.”

“Good luck with that Hanscom.” Richie says, crouching down to get his face licked. “She loves me too much.”

* * *

On the way to work one rainy morning Richie drops by his favourite coffeeshop and sees Eddie sitting in a booth by the window.

He almost doesn’t recognize him without the yellow hat and the scowl. Eddie is softer without them, so engrossed in his book he doesn’t seem to notice Richie’s come in and chewing at his lip in concentration. He looks so peaceful that Richie almost doesn’t want to piss him off which is a new feeling because usually Richie nearly literally gets off on pushing his buttons. The key word though is _almos_t, because as soon as Richie gets his Americano, he’s throwing himself down in the seat opposite.

  
“I didn’t know you could read,” he says and then internally curses himself because he had meant to start off with a neutral _hey _or _nice weather for ducks_ or something.

Eddie looks up as if he’s being woken from a dream and there’s a second of delay before he scowls.

“You couldn’t wait half an hour to annoy me at work?”

“Is that a Denbrough novel?” Richie asks him, reading, _The Dead Lights_ upside down on the cover. “I’ve read that one- don’t bother finishing it. The ending is shit.”

“No spoilers!” Eddie says, closing the book very carefully with an actual bookmark. “I only have two chapters left.”

“That’s not a spoiler; it’s a warning. You’re gonna be disappointed.”

Eddie looks like he wants to be outraged but then he seems to make some internal decision and his shoulders relax just a little.

“I know. I actually read the ending already.” He confesses. “I think it was a cheap death- there was no reason for it. No narrative reason at least.”

“I’m with you but why would you do that? Are you re-reading it or something?” Richie asks, genuinely confused.

“No, I just read ahead. I wanted to know what was going to happen.” Eddie says and then he looks away as if embarrassed. “I don’t really like horror. I just like the writer.”

“Why would you tell me not to spoil it then?” Richie asks and _of course_ Eddie would skip to the end of books just to find out what happens.

“Principle.” Eddie says shrugging and giving Richie this small, almost shy smile.

Richie can hear the rain outside, and Eddie’s fingers are laced around his drink, the steam rising up between them. He suddenly feels an intense wave of affection, in this quiet sort of moment where neither of them are shouting, and it feels _scary_, scarier than losing his job, scarier than leaving L.A. He has a sudden vivid flash of standing on a hot street eating ice-cream as a kid and with it that familiar sense of deep and powerful loss that came to him sometimes; randomly and without meaning.

“You know I met him. Bill Denbrough.” He blurts out and then winces because it sounds like a brag, like he’s trying to impress.

Eddie just looks interested, leaning towards him over the table.

“What’s he like? I only saw some interviews after_ The Black Rapids _got that movie adaption.”

“Eh, we only spoke for like ten minutes at an L.A party. I was kind of drunk, but he seemed nice. He looked a bit uncomfortable with that crowd. You’d get on with him though. I think you’d see eye to eye.”

“Really?” Eddie asks, looking kind of flattered.

“Yeah, he’s like five foot five or something too.” Richie says because he’s an idiot who can’t just flirt and be nice like a normal person.

* * *

Weeks pass and despite everything it’s coming along well, so well it makes Richie nervous. He and Stan meet up for coffee, and sometimes they never even get around to talking about the club. Now Ben is back in New York they walk around doing sight-seeing, dumb tourist stuff. Ben drags him to the Empire States building and Richie makes him go to a karaoke bar in retaliation. One night Beverly shows up for a single drink and tells a story so dirty that Richie spits beer all over his favorite shirt. She get’s a text message not long after and has to leave early, and Ben is moody the rest of the night, even when Richie makes him duet Cyndi Lauper.

The club has an opening date now and what the kids apparently call an _online presence_.

He and Eddie still bicker but Richie listens more now, and Eddie doesn’t go from zero to a hundred quite so quickly. People are still leaving the room when they start talking but now it’s because they tend to get into long involved discussions about anything from the best 80’s rom coms to the worst plagues of the medieval period. Richie brings him coffee, at first on random impulse but then soon, routinely.

He’s started looking forward to it when he first wakes up, the smile that Eddie gives him in exchange for the cream and sugar latte concoction of the day.

“I can’t believe you have this much of a sweet tooth.” Richie says one morning when they’ve both arrived a little early and they’re sitting around waiting for the others.

They’ve both been turning up earlier and earlier these days and Richie hopes it’s as much of a _not-accident_ for Eddie too. They’re sitting side by side on the bar top, Richie with his legs crossed under him and Eddie with his legs dangling above the floor. Sometimes when he swings them his knee will brush Richie’s. Richie has nearly dropped his coffee cup three times at this point.

“Sugar won’t kill me.” Eddie says and it sounds weird, like a mantra he’s repeated before. “It’s okay to indulge sometimes.”

“I would have thought you’d be a big health nut. Gluten free, low carb, all that stuff. Water and superfoods only.”

Eddie laughs but he looks a little uncomfortable.

“I wasn’t _born _as a health and safety supervisor. Up until like, two years ago I was a risk analyst.”

“Isn’t that like, the same thing?” Richie asks, blinking at him.

“No.” Eddie says, frowning but only for a second. “It was an office job. Paid pretty well. I had a lot of suits. But after the divorce I needed something different. I guess I always kind of hated the job, but Myra thought it was stable.”

“You were married?” Richie asks, genuinely taken aback but also greedy for more information. “To a uh, _a woman_?”

“Yeah.” Eddie says and looks at him warily. “I guess you could call it a classic midlife crisis. Quit my job, realized I was gay. No sports car though. But the mileage is pretty bad on those.”

“No offense dude but most people quit their boring jobs to go be ski instructors or I don’t know, go hiking in the outback. Not to get an even more boring job.”

“My job isn’t boring.” Eddie snaps and he looks like he’s gearing up for another fight, so Richie changes tracks quickly, not wanting to fuck up the moment.

“Sorry, sorry, “ he says quickly. “Beep-Beep Richie.”.

Eddie frowns.

“What does that mean? Is that a line from a TV show? It sounds familiar.”

“It’s just something I say in my head. When I need to shut up.” Richie admits awkwardly and he realizes he’s never said that out loud to anyone before. “I don’t even know where I got it from. Maybe it was a show. I watched a lot of TV as a kid. I think.”

“I have that too sometimes.” Eddie muses, making a little hum in the back of his throat. “Fuzzy childhood stuff.”

“Who remembers anything before college right?” Richie says glibly and Eddie laughs and nods in agreement.

“So, what sparked the midlife crisis? Did you find a grey hair?” Richie asks and almost reaches over to check before he stops himself.

Eddie looks down at his coffee as if he’s seeing something in the whipped cream.

“I saw. Uh, I saw a news article. On my break at work on day.” he says, speaking in a low voice. “About this guy in Maine. Some kid really, not that old. And he was killed in front of his boyfriend. They were coming home from the fair. Just a stupid town fair. Some assholes decided to make it an issue, I guess.”

He pauses and takes a breath and Richie stays, very, very still and listens intently.

“And I thought, when I saw that,” Eddie goes on, voice a little ragged. “_Fuck_ this will sound awful. I thought: is this what I’m afraid of? Is this why I’ve been doing this all these years? I know it sounds crazy; it should have pushed me further back into the closet but when I saw that I could think of was that I had been afraid my whole life. And everything I did was about that fear. I’d done everything right up until then, I’d eaten right and taken every precaution, fuck I was married to a woman for a decade.”

He looks up at Richie then and his eyes look massive and dark, like this is something he hasn’t ever told anyone else.

“But all it did was make me miserable. “Eddie finishes softly and then looks back at his whipped cream, as if he’s shared too much.

Richie just looks back at him for a moment, trapped between his inability to talk about this stuff without the barrier of a joke and the need to offer something in return, of equal value to what Eddie has just revealed.

The silence stretches a little bit too long and fuck, Richie’s such a fucking _coward_.

“That was kind of dark. Did I ruin the mood?” Eddie asks, watching Richie’s face somewhat anxiously.

“I am capable of being serious you know.” Richie tells him. “I’m not all knock-knock jokes. Your comedian bias is showing.”

And then because he’s kind of proving himself wrong by joking about it and he needs to fucking say_ something, _he admits, “I know what that’s like. To feel like you’ve been leading the wrong life. And the hiding. It makes you feel like… like a bad actor. Like you memorized the wrong lines.”

Eddie nods and whether its intentional or not his leg moves slightly so it’s touching Richie’s. If it’s a sign of solidarity or just an accident, Richie doesn’t know but it turns him on in a way that feels wildly inappropriate as a response to the emotional timbre of this discussion.

“Have you thought about you’re going to name this place?” Eddie asks him, breaking the silence.

“I was thinking about calling it _The Clubhouse_.” Richie says. “But now I’m wondering if that sounds too ‘old rich guys playing golf’_. _Or being racist and drinking sherry or whatever.”

Eddie muses on this for a moment while Richie watches his eyebrows. He finds Eddie’s eyebrows endlessly fascinating somehow; the sheer amount of emotion they convey from one moment to the next.

“What about _The Barrens_?” Eddie says finally. “I always thought that would make a good name for something.”

Richie rolls the word around his head and it sounds right, feels like it fits somehow.

“I’ll think about it.” He says. “Where does it come from?”

“I don’t know.” Eddie said. “It just popped into my head.”

* * *

That night, still up and manic from tossing and turning for the past three hours, he texts Eddie’s number for the first time.

_i’m doing it, the barrens it is, ur a genius, _he types out and then send the text before he thinks better of it.

Not even a minute later his phone lights up in the dark bedroom.

_Who is this please? Is it 4AM where you are too? _

Richie rolls his eyes at the capitalization and proper use of grammar.

_you know who this is grumpy, i got ur number from ben_

_Did you tell Ben you would use it to call me at this time of the morning? We have to be at work in less than four hours._

_sorry to interrupt ur beauty sleep. see u soon_

Richie almost puts an x at the end but thankfully, even sleep deprived and manic he’s not that stupid. He’s about to turn off the phone and go to sleep when it vibrates in his hand.

_That’s okay, I wasn’t sleeping anyway. _

Then _Richie_ ends up being the one not sleeping, thinking about what that meant. Was that just Eddie saying he didn’t mind Richie texting him that late or was he just a bad sleeper too? Or, another possibility, Eddie was with someone, and was still awake because he was up all night having amazing, wall banging, multiple orgasm sex.

He pictures Eddie reading out his texts to some hot beefy guy that Eddie probably met through construction saying, _look at this idiot, when’s he gonna get the hint? I don’t even like comedians._

The image is ridiculous and stupid and tinged with a worrying possessiveness that Richie doesn’t like to think he has, especially about someone who he’s not even with, someone who he hasn’t ever made a move on. It’s also disturbingly hot, the idea of Eddie naked and grinning underneath the sheets, even if it’s with someone else and Richie is up for the rest of the night going between arousal and worry and a vague kind of guilt at having all these thoughts about someone who probably just thinks of him as a slightly annoying co-worker.

So when he opens his office door the next day and sees Beverly, shivering and soaked through, it takes him a while to react like a normal human being.

“Beverly.” He says, standing there and blinking at her like an idiot. “Why are you all wet?”

“It’s raining outside.” Beverly says and Richie knows that, he walked through it this morning. He’s obviously not capable of intelligent thought and she looks freezing, so he just opens the door and gestures for her to come in.

“Do you want a blanket or something?” He says and then realizes he doesn’t have a blanket because this is an office, so he takes off his jacket instead. 

Beverly puts it on like she’s sleepwalking, sitting on the edge of his ratty couch and staring off into the distance. She’s been here a few times, usually dropping in to see Ben or pick him up to go out for lunch. Bev can be quiet but, in a kind, cool sort of way; someone with the kind of self-assuredness that Richie could only dream of. He’s never seen her like this before; wrapping her arms around her shoulders as if that’s the only thing holding her together.

“Do you…do you want a drink?” He prompts gently when she still doesn’t talk. He wonders if he should try and find Ben, but he doesn’t want to leave her alone like this.

“Right now, I’d kill for one.” She says softly and tries to smile but it comes out all wobbly.

“I won’t make you resort to that.” Richie says and pours her a glass from the bottle he keeps in his bottom drawer, a holdover from his early days in New York.

Beverly smiles and takes it and then she’s reaching into a pocket and pulling out a fancy cigarette holder and a lighter. She’s got the cigarette to her mouth when she seems to realise what she’s doing.

“Oh god, I’m sorry, I can’t do that in here can I?” She says and for the first time Richie sees the dark bruises peeking out from under her wrists, the fingerprints on the white skin of her neck. He feels suddenly very cold and angry, but he doesn’t want to upset her, so he tries not to let it show.

“No, it’s fine. You go ahead and smoke.” He tells her. “But if Eddie asks, I tried to stop you.”

She laughs and then it turns into a sob hallway through and she puts her face in her hands, making awful hiccupping sounds.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I don’t do this normally, I’m not like this.” She’s saying and Richie feels frozen, wanting to comfort her but knowing she probably didn’t want to be touched right now.

“It’s just been a bad day.” She says and then laughs in a horrible broken way. “A bad fucking _life_.”

“It’s okay, you can cry.” Richie says, knowing he’s babbling a little bit. “Don’t feel bad for it, I cry all the time. When I first came to this city, that’s _all_ I did. And you’re much tougher than me, I know if you’re crying there must be a good fucking reason for it.”

Bev raises her wet face and somehow, she’s smiling. “You must think I’m crazy. You barely know me. And now I’m having a breakdown on your couch.”

Richie has a strong, fierce urge to say, _I know you! I know you’re brave and smart and cool and loving! I_ _know you!_ but Beverly is right, he’s only met her a handful of times, there’s no reason to feel that strongly. He does though, illogical though it is.

“It’s not the first breakdown this couch has seen, believe me.” Richie tells her and then the door opens, and Ben is standing there in the entrance.

“Beverly? Bev, what happened?” He says, eyes darting between Beverly’s tear streaked face and her bruised wrist still holding the unlit cigarette. “_What did he do_?”

For a moment Richie thinks Ben is talking about him and he’s about to start protesting when Beverly launches up from beside him, straight into Ben’s arms.

“Nothing, nothing, it doesn’t matter now,” she’s saying, looking up at him. “Who cares about him anyway. I know what I want. I read your poem.”

“Beverly…” Ben breathes and he’s tracing her face so carefully, as if he can’t believe she’s touching him. “What…what did you think of it?”

“I loved it. I’m in love with it.” Beverly says and then she’s pulling Ben down to kiss him.

Richie takes this as his cue to leave. He closes the door behind him softly, so as not to disturb them, and then he wanders off to find Eddie, feeling like maybe he had fallen asleep last night after all, and this was just a really bizarre dream.

Eddie is messing around with a tape measure by the stage and he looks almost alarmed by Richie’s expression when Richie wanders up.

“What happened to you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Richie laughs a little because that makes him think of Stan saying this place was haunted.

“Do you ever feel like you’re the comic relief in someone else’s big romantic movie?” He asks Eddie who squints at him and leans in to sniff his shirt.

“Are you high right now Richie?” Eddie asks in a whisper, genuinely concerned, and that just makes Richie laugh harder.

* * *

The next day Ben calls him from a payphone from a different state. He won’t specify which, just in case.

“Are you really _on the run_ now?” Richie whispers. “Do you need cash or something?”

“No. But I do need you to take care of Laika. She’s…We couldn’t take her with us. I left the keys above the door.”

“So is this _it_?” Richie asks him. “Are you gonna be coming back?”

“After the divorce goes through, perhaps. And the restraining order.” Ben says and then pauses. “Save us some tickets, Richie. It’s gonna be a great club. I’m sorry I won’t be there to see it for a while.”

Richie has the awful feeling he’s going to cry, standing with his phone pressed to his face in the middle of a busy street.

“Keep in touch okay? And take care of yourself. And Bev. Anything you guys need, anything at all, just call me.”

“Aw Richie, I never knew you cared.” Ben teases gently and these roles are all wrong, Richie should be the one trying to use humor to make this less fucking_ upsetting_.

“Yeah well.” He says gruffly. “The dog will miss you I guess.”

“Sure.” Ben says and Richie can almost hear the smile down the phone. “Will you do one thing for me though?”

“What is it? You guys need a liver? Fake passports? My Netflix login?” Richie asks, desperate to help.

“Can you please stop fucking about and ask Eddie out? It’s getting painful to watch.”

Afterwards Richie thinks that might be the first time he’s heard Ben ever swear.

* * *

By the time Richie shows up to work with Laika walking patiently at his heel, the story of Ben and Beverly’s dramatic escape has already somehow circulated and taken on a new exciting life of its own.

“They eloped. One hundred percent.” Richie overhears Clive telling the electrician. “They’re in Vegas now. No doubt about it. They have these Elvis impersonators…”

By lunchtime Richie has heard that they’re in Nebraska, Canada, Europe and for some reason, even _Maine_.

He had known that the crew respected Ben as a boss and as an architect, but he hadn’t realized the deep-rooted fondness they all seemed to have for him. They all have a story to tell about some big act of generosity Ben had performed, paid sick leave no questions asked, tabs picked up, orphans being pulled out of rushing rivers.

The last one may have been an exaggeration, but it still creeps Richie out the way they’re talking about Ben, like he’s _dead_, so he escapes to his office for most of the day.

Eddie comes in at one point, ostensibly to discuss something about signage but Richie suspects its more of an excuse to pet Laika. 

“You’re so cute.” Eddie tells her, letting her hop up onto the couch with him. “Yes, you are! Hello baby!”

Richie feels a weird pang in his chest looking at him and is this what his life has come to? Being jealous of a dog?

It’s not until quite late that evening that he’s finally alone, with a clear enough mind to do some of the paperwork that Stan keeps sending him. Most people have gone by now, judging by the lack of hammering noises going on in the next room and the dog is curled up under the desk keeping his feet warm. He’s squinting at a particularly stupid requisition form and vaguely wondering if he could justify pouring out some of the whiskey when he hears the shouting through the walls.

At first Richie thinks that Eddie’s blowing up over some trip hazard, but Eddie hasn’t shouted like that in a long time now and hardly ever at people who aren’t Richie. He gets up and goes over to the door, and now he hears it more clearly, it’s a stranger’s voice, male and angry. He can hear Eddie too now, arguing back.

Richie walks down the corridor, almost looking forward to the show because he still finds it kind of exciting to see Eddie getting all worked up, even now, but when he gets the main stage he freezes in the doorway, drawing in a sharp breath.

Across the room, Eddie is backed up against the wall, white faced, a man in a crumpled suit standing over him, talking a low angry tone. His fists are balled up at his sides, white knuckled and Richie can see what he’s going to do just from the way he’s set his feet.

“-going to tell me where they are?” The man is saying, looking half deranged with anger. “I know she’s been here; I can still smell her fucking _cigarettes_.”

“I don’t fucking know, _dipshit_.” Eddie spits back into his face, still holding his ground despite the five inches of height between them. “And I wouldn’t tell you where they were if I did.”

“_Hey_!” Richie calls loudly across the room, stepping out into the light. “What’s the fucking problem here?”

Eddie locks eyes with him over the guys shoulder with visible relief but then the guy is turning around, and Richie sees the blotchy complexion, the unfocused eyes and realizes that he’s not just dealing with asshole, he’s dealing with a very _drunk _asshole.

“I’m Tom Rogan. I’m looking for my fucking _wife_.” The man says, swaying slightly. “Walk away pal, this has nothing to do with you. We’re just having a _friendly chat_ about where _the fuck_ this guy’s boss is.”

“I’m his fucking boss.” Richie snaps, inching closer and trying to keep Rogan’s attention on him. “So, if there’s any questions you can ask me okay?”

“We’re not telling you anything dirtbag.” Eddie snaps and Richie wishes desperately that for once in his life Eddie could just know when to be _quiet._

But it’s too late, Rogan is already turning back to Eddie, growling out, “_What _did you just say?” and pushing him back against the wall, hard enough that Eddie’s head makes a loud crack against the brick.

Richie sees red and then he’s on Rogan, tackling him down to the ground where they have a brief, intense struggle and then Richie’s on top and punching down, thinking about the bruises on Beverly’s wrists, her neck, thinking _fuck you, fuck you, you fucking coward._

* * *

“He’ll be back." Eddie frets later, when he’s patching Richie up with the first aid kit. “Should we warn Ben and Beverly?”

In the end the fight was kind of pathetic, over the minute Richie had broken Rogan’s nose. He had staggered out into the night in the end, half crying from anger, a bloody hand over his face.

Now Richie is hopped up on the bar and he’s woozy from the black eye but more so from the feel of Eddie standing in between his thighs, dabbing at his face in careful little motions.

“We won’t see him again. I know guys like that.” Richie says and then winces as Eddie puts antiseptic onto his eyebrow. “He doesn’t like to be hit back. He’s not used to it.”

“But if he’s violent and looking for them…” Eddie says and he’s cupping Richie’s chin to hold him steady, his fingertips grazing Richie’s stubble.

“They know he’s looking for them,” Richie mumbles and fuck, his face _hurts_, even though Rogan threw a shitty punch. “And they already know he’s violent. At least Bev does.”

He watches the anger in Eddie’s face as he absorbs this.

“Fuck him. _Fuck him_.” Eddie says viciously. “I wish I had been the one to punch him. What an asshole. We should have called the police.”

He presses a little too hard on the edges of Richie black eye and then mutters an apology when Richie winces, smoothing his thumb over the sore spot as if to soothe it.

“I froze up.” Eddie whispers, looking tortured. “I was just watching, I couldn’t move. I fucked up Richie, I’m so sorry. I should have stepped in; I should have helped you.”

Richie blinks at him in confusion and _owch_.

“You’d just been smashed into a wall, what are you talking about?”

Then he takes that in and feels a sudden burst of panic. “Oh shit, Eddie your _head_! That could be a concussion, we should check it out- “

Eddie shushes him and pushes him back. “Hey, _hey_, don’t move idiot, I haven’t put the cold compress on. My head is fine, it sounded worse than it was.”

“I think you’re very brave.” Richie says and maybe _he’s _the one who’s concussed, he sounds like the protagonist in some anime, but he can’t stop himself. “I think you’re the bravest.”

Eddie looks at him for a long time, like he’s searching for something in Richie’s face.

“Sometimes when I’m with you,” He says hesitantly. “I feel like I know you. Like I’ve done this before.”

Richie swallows.

“Maybe we met in a past life,” he says and it’s the corniest shit in the world but weirdly he feels like he means it somehow, because he knows what Eddie means, he feels like this is a ritual they’ve performed before somehow, Eddie patching him up while Richie sneaks glances at his face.

* * *

Richie’s been counting down to the opening party for so long now the actual date seems unreal to him and it’s not until he gets out of the cab wearing a suit for the first time in a year and looks up at the neon sign that it sinks in that this is _real,_ that this is _actually happening_. 

_The Barrens,_ it reads in curling blue font and then an arrow points down the steps into the cellar, where Richie can already hear the music and voices, see the glow of warm light. It suddenly occurs to him that this is something he made happen, something he brought into existence and for the first time since his life fell apart, he thinks maybe this isn’t just a consolation prize for his career, maybe this is something so much more than that.

When he walks in the room a few people cheer and raise their glasses, already clearly on the way to being drunk. He’s invited pretty every remaining contact he has in the comedy world and a good few of them have actually turned up. For a moment it feels like he’s walking into one of the old parties in L.A, the endless rotating faces pushing drinks into his hands. Then he sees Stan give him a wave from the bar, where he’s standing next to a blonde woman who Richie recognizes from the photo on Stan’s desk.

“Stan the Man! You came!” Richie says when he goes over and Stan, Stan of the professional handshakes and formal email sign offs, actually pulls him into a hug.

“I can’t believe you pulled this off.” Stan says, grinning. “I thought you were going to give me a nervous breakdown first.”

“Don’t worry there’s still a good chance of that happening when we open for real.” Richie says and then sticks his hand to Stanley’s wife, who up close has kind eyes and a delicate star of David pendant nestled above her collarbone. “You must be Patty!”

“So, they tell me.” She says drily and then smiles at him. “Do you know you’re my husband’s favorite client?”

“Aw, stop you’ll make me blush.” Richie says, waving his hand for dramatic effect but secretly it does make him feel kind of warm inside because after all this time Stan is as much of a friend as anything.

“If favorite means most time-consuming and stressful.” Stan says and Patty nudges him gently and laughs.

“It does,” she tells Richie. “It really does.”

Richie’s already secured an invitation to dinner at their house before he drags himself away to be a good host and press the flesh. He moves around the room, making small talk and being charming, feeling like he’s twenty-five again and desperately trying to establish himself. He can’t help but keep looking away, searching for Eddie’s face among all the others.

He had invited all of Ben’s crew and he’s already run into Clive by the bathrooms but there’s no sign of Eddie yet, even though Richie had been pestering him all day through text. Yeah, they text now, but it’s no big deal, maybe Eddie sends a lot of guys articles about the environment. Maybe that’s his thing. Eddie was, at the end of the day just working on a job and if he doesn’t want to see Richie outside of that then it’s not like he’s obligated. Unless Richie sells this place and starts work on refurbishing somewhere else and _why hasn’t he thought of this before,_ he could just go into the property business and spend the rest of his life covered in paint and dust, _pining_.

Not for the first time Richie wishes that Ben was here, or Beverly. The last he’s heard from them they have a boat now, but its hard to tell because whenever he Facetimes, Ben gets side-tracked trying to talk to his dog.

He’s leaning by the brick wall at the back, looking over at the bar and contemplating giving up and getting comfortably drunk when someone taps him on the shoulder. When he looks down its Eddie. He’s wearing a blazer and a white button up and he looks like he’s done something to his hair and suddenly Richie’s heart is doing a fucking modified two step in his chest.

“Uh, hi.” Richie says and he’s cursing himself because _what’s the point of being a comedian if you couldn’t come up with anything witty or charming when you needed to? _“You look uh, dapper.”

“You too.” Eddie says, just as awkwardly and then he’s thrusting a neatly wrapped gift into Richie’s face. “Sorry I’m late. I wanted to bring you something. I mean, I thought I should.”

Richie grins at him, feeling like he has champagne bubbles in his blood. He wants to make a joke like, _is it a ring?_ but maybe that wouldn’t be a joke at all or at least would give too much away.

“Aw, Eds, you shouldn’t have. You’ll spoil me.” He says instead. “Did you wrap this yourself?”

Eddie looks stricken. “Is it that obvious?”

It isn’t really, which is why Richie was surprised, it looks professionally done, shiny blue paper with an actual red bow on it. Richie thinks of Eddie making himself late for the party because he’s hunched over a table messing about with little pieces of Scotch tape and he wants to kiss him right there and then.

When he opens it there’s a brand new first aid kit inside, nestled in the packaging. He looks up and Eddie is staring with great interest into the middle distance, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I figured that someone else is probably going to try and beat you up at some point.”

Richie laughs in delight and, before he can really think about it, reaches over and touches Eddie’s arm. He can feel warmth through the soft fabric and Eddie looks down at his hand and then up at Richie’s face, not like he’s shocked, or Richie is a creeper, but like he’s waiting for something, like this is just the start.

  
“Stay here okay, I’ll bring us some drinks.” Richie tells him. “What do you want, champagne? Pina Colada?”

_The moon?_ He thinks, like the loser he is.

“Whatever you’re having.” Eddie tells him and Richie almost falls over his own feet getting to the bar.

When he returns, trying to balance two glasses of champagne as he pushes through the crowd, Eddie isn’t alone. Some comedian that Richie vaguely used to know from doing the same club circuit is next to him, one hand up against the wall and smirking like a jackass. Eddie doesn’t look like he’s in trouble but he looks like he’s pissed off and Richie really hadn’t been wanting to break open the first aid kit this quickly.

“Well if it isn’t Trashmouth Tozier in person.” The guy says when Richie walks up and passes a glass over to Eddie who takes it with a little too much enthusiasm. “Nice place you have here. Who would have thought this is where you’d end up?”

“Simon.” Richie says in greeting, smiling at him or at least showing a lot of teeth. “Yeah, life’s a rollercoaster.”

  
“I didn’t know that you and Eddie here had met.” Simon says and his tone is saying something else. “I always though he hated this sort of scene. I was just saying to Eddie actually, it feels like we haven’t seen each other in _forever_. I guess I’ve been looking for you in the wrong comedy clubs.”

This last he says to Eddie who visibly bristles, clutching his champagne flute like a potential murder weapon.

“You can _keep on _looking there,” he snaps. “It’s not the comedy I was avoiding.”

Simon just laughs, like this is all hilarious, and Richie kind of wants to duck for cover from the impending explosion.

“Don’t tell me you’re still mad.” Simon wheedles. “I thought you might have acquired a sense of humour about what happened by now.”

Richie suddenly has the same feeling he had when he watched a documentary about Chernobyl last week; that he can see how this is going to play out, so he clears his throat loudly.

“I forgot to say, I caught your Netflix special the other day.” He tells Simon. “_Loved_ the bit about how we use our phones too much, really _inspired_. And the part about how teenage girls talk weird? Great, great stuff. Real original.”

Simon’s eyes narrow and flick over to Richie, as if weighing up how much this fight is worth to him.

Then he just smiles tightly, saying, “You’d know all about being _original_ wouldn’t you Richie?”

Richie pushes his glasses back, ready to really get into it, but Simon has obviously cut his losses and is already walking away.

“Nice party anyway.” He says before he leaves and then makes and exaggerated _call me_ sign at Eddie who rolls his eyes.

“_Ugh_.” Eddie says beside him, with feeling.

Richie gives him the side-eye. “Can I go ahead and guess that guy has something to do with your thing about comedians?”

“We used to date. Not long after my divorce.” Eddie says regretfully and Richie scowls after Simon’s retreating back with a whole new kind of annoyance.

Also, possibly, a bit of _interest_ because maybe guys like Simon were Eddie’s type, tall but pretty boring aside from the beard. Richie could try and look more boring. He could throw away some of the worst shirts for a start, start buying beige in bulk. He can’t grow a beard though so maybe he’s doomed either way.

“What went wrong? He seems like such a swell guy.” Richie says sarcastically and Eddie elbows him in the side.

“He used me.” Eddie says darkly and then when he sees Richie’s face, shakes his head quickly. “Not like that, I mean, he used me for material. For his stand up. We had been on like five dates, it was going okay, I mean he was _funny_. And then I go to his show and it’s ninety minutes about the perils of dating a closet case.”

Richie winces because that’s a pretty dick move, to put someone’s private shit onstage like that without at least warning them first.

“I wasn’t even _in_ the closet.” Eddie says petulantly. “I was just…taking things slow. So yeah, I broke it off.”

“_Good.”_ Richie says. “Also, I give you permission to hate comedians now.”

“Some of them are alright.” Eddie says and gives him a shy sort of smile. “If you get to know them.”

* * *

After a while they get another drink at the bar and Richie is being a _terrible host_ because he’s not mingling at all, but how can he leave when Eddie hasn’t stopped smiling at him all night?

“Do you miss it?” Eddie asks, raising his voice a little over the music. The party has picked up now and some people are dancing, mostly very drunkenly. Richie can see Stan giving his wife an elegant dip across the room.

“L.A?” He thinks about it. “The sunshine maybe. But New York has bagels so it’s a pretty even toss up.”

It’s blink and you’ll miss it, but he thinks he sees a look of relief pass over Eddie’s face.

“Yeah the bagels are pretty good.” Eddie agrees, “But I meant the stand up. Being on stage.”

“Yeah.” Richie sighs. “Yeah, that I miss. I miss being a _name_, I guess. I miss big posters of my face with people saying nice things on them. And all the free cocaine.”

Eddie rolls his eyes but he’s smiling. “You know, you still have fans out there. People who liked you even after the, uh. What happened. “

Richie feels a little queasy and he plays with his drink because of course, he kind of knew that Eddie must have known why he came to New York, fuck, I mean he had access to the _internet_ but the idea of him being witness to the humiliating end of Richie’s career is still upsetting.

They had never talked about it before now and they had covered pretty much every topic under the sun otherwise.

The thought occurs to him though, that maybe that hadn’t been the kind of conversation you had with someone you worked with. Now they were just two people talking at a party. The thought fills Richie with a kind of reckless bravery and he takes a nervous gulp of his drink, feeling like he’s about to jump off a cliff.

“Do you want to go out sometime?” He blurts out, terrified.

Eddie opens his mouth and closes it again and Richie panics.

“I mean we could catch a movie or something. If you like. I mean I wanted to see that Joker film and they probably won’t let me go in alone.” He babbles, horrified by the fact he’s _still somehow talking_. “But you look less lone gunman-ey than me. Nicer. I mean you look shaved.”

This is the worst, least romantic way he’s ever asked someone out, hands down_,_ but then again, he hasn’t really asked many people out face to face. Probably still pretty bad to have mentioned mass shootings. He can’t even look at Eddie’s face.

“I’m not a big fan of clowns.” Eddie says hesitantly and that’s fair, neither is Richie but the disappointment is still _crushing._

He nods quickly and reaches up to mess with his glasses but then Eddie nudges him and leans into his side.

“Would it be too gay to suggest that Judy Garland biopic instead?” Eddie says and Richie feels a smile spread slowly over his face. He probably looks incredibly sappy but it’s cool, it’s all so very cool.

“No such thing as too gay.” Richie hears himself say over the choir of angels in his head. “I’m always up for a trip down the yellow brick road.”

Eddie looks up at him and then something shifts in his expression, his eyes getting a little darker somehow.

“Hey, did I see a bottle of whiskey in your office?”.

“They serve whiskey at the bar.” Richie says stupidly and then he gets it. “Oh. Right. Yeah. I guess I could fish that out.”

“Well then,” Eddie says, blatantly watching his mouth. “Let’s go fish.”

Richie stumbles after him through the crowd thinking, _Am I really doing this? Sneaking off at my own launch party for nookie in a back room? _

Then Eddie looks back over his shoulder and smirks and Richie thinks, _Yes, I am. This is indeed a thing I am doing._

His hands are already nearly shaking by the time they make it to the office, thinking about all the places on Eddie’s body he wants to touch. A lot of them aren’t even sexy; Richie has been thinking obsessively for weeks now about places like the inside of Eddie’s elbow, the curve of his chin, his collarbone and nose and even his stupid _eyebrows_.

They make it inside and then Richie is reaching for the drawer with the whiskey when Eddie kisses him, pushing him back against the desk. It’s kind of messy but it’s hot, the feel of the desk at his back and Eddie pressed against him and Richie makes an embarrassing moan and leans down to cradle Eddie’s face.

“Is this-is this okay?” Eddie asks, pulling back suddenly. “I didn’t mean to- “

  
“Shut up it’s perfect.” Richie says, and then before he can hold it in, “You’re perfect.”

They kiss again, more hungrily this time and Richie lets his hands slip inside of Eddie’s blazer and push it off. He can feel the warmth of him properly now, through his thin shirt and maybe this won’t be just nookie, because Richie doesn’t know if he can stop this now it’s started, it feels like he’s been waiting his _whole life_ for this somehow.

“Wait, wait.” Eddie gasps. “The door- let me close it.”

“Okay, yeah, good plan.” Richie says, equally breathlessly. “Just uh, don’t close it all the way, stick my jacket in it or something.”

Eddie blinks and laughs uncertainly. “What? Why? What if they hear us?”

“They won’t, it’ll be fine.” Richie says, eager to get back to the making out part. “It’s just the deadbolt is weird; it only works from the outside. If you close it all the way we might not get out again.”

He’s about to make a joke out of it, something cheesy like, _I could think of worse people to be locked up with, _but then he sees the expression on Eddie’s face.

“That’s… that’s really dangerous Richie.” He says slowly. “If there was a fire or something and you got trapped in here…”

“Do you see a fire?” Richie says a little desperately because he doesn’t want to talk about health and safety anymore, not when there’s so many more enticing alternatives.

“I gave you that checklist.” Eddie says and he’s still standing there with his hand on the door, but for the first time Richie realizes this situation may be getting away from him. “You told me you had fitted out all the entranceways.”

“I did!” Richie protests. “But this is just in the back! It doesn’t matter! Eddie, are we really doing this _now_? Over a stupid _lock_?”

“It’s not the lock, asshole.” Eddie says hotly. “It’s the fact you _lied_ to me about it! What other things on that checklist did you ignore?”

“Your _checklist_ was about a mile long.” Richie snaps because he’s pissed that all of this could be ruined over something so small and stupid. “We needed to open, Eds, literally everything I have is tied up in this place. Do you understand that? I have _nothing_ else except this stupid club.”

“Don’t fucking call me Eds when you’re standing there telling me you’ve been lying to me for what, _months_ now?” Eddie pauses, eyes wide and betrayed. “You know _I _signed off on this place. Because, like an idiot, I believed you. If you get an inspection, I might lose my job over this. Do _you_ understand _that_?”

For a moment they just look at each other, both breathing heavily, and all Richie can think is that Eddie’s hair is still tousled from his hands, that a minute ago Eddie was smiling at him, touching him.

“I wasn’t lying to you.” Richie says, trying to keep his voice at a normal volume. “I was just, fuck, I don’t know, _protecting_ you. From the small stuff. You didn’t need to worry about all of it.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he can tell he’s said the wrong thing. Eddie’s back straightens and his features are suddenly blank and masklike.

“I never _asked_ or _wanted _you to protect me.” Eddie tells him in this cold, awful voice. “Especially not like this. I wish you hadn’t.”

Richie feels like he’s been punched and then the guilt is suddenly overwhelmed by the familiar urge to bite back, defend.

“You really take your job seriously, huh?” He says and it comes out mean and small, but Eddie doesn’t rise to it, doesn’t counter, just takes a long last look at him and then leaves.

* * *

Later when everyone else has left, even the caterers, Stan finds him where Richie is sitting on the edge of the stage. The room smells of spilt liquor and most of the glitter strands have fallen down now. Richie is sitting with his tie undone in his shirtsleeves looking at his own pathetic reflection in one of the loose red balloons. He’s smoking even though he really shouldn’t because the smell will stick around, and he thinks vaguely about holding the lit end to the plastic to make it pop.

He’s always fucking hated balloons.

“Hey Rich.” Stan says gently. “The taxi just arrived. Are you sure you don’t want to come with us? You can crash at my house. No problem at all.”

Richie looks up at him blearily and even in his self-pity he can appreciate the offer. Stan and his wife probably have a very clean house, tastefully decorated, and they probably don’t want some messy middle-aged comedian fucking it up, but he knows that Stan is being genuine.

“Nah man, I’m good. You kids go on now.” He says and then tries to smile in a reassuring way. “This party’s just getting good, I can’t leave now.”

Stan gives him a long look and then perches gingerly down beside him, even though the taxi is probably waiting.

“You aren’t worried about the ghost anymore?” He asks.

Richie snorts. “You know what, you can tell me about the ghost now. I’m ready. What have I got to lose?”

“You’ve got a lot.” Stan says, after a pause of actual consideration. “You’ve got a lot more than when you came here.”

“Yeah I’ve started a business I don’t have any idea how to manage. The guy who helped me start it is off, God knows where, _on the run_. And I’ve fucked everything up with the person who I- with the only person who-“

He cuts himself off and then tries to change tracks, lighten the tension.

“How come you aren’t scared of ghosts Stan-the-Man?” He asks. “Too silly for you? I guess you’re not as cowardly as the rest of us.”

Stan sighs and when Richie looks at him, he looks very young somehow, or at least there is an impression that Richie is looking at someone else, someone much, much younger.

“I get scared. I have nightmares a lot-maybe too many. Most nights.” Stan says quietly. “But that’s okay. They aren’t real. I suppose I’m not scared of ghosts because I know they don’t exist. They can’t hurt me. That’s the only thing that stops the fear really- knowing none of it is real.”

Then he looks over at Richie, smiling a little.

“It’s alright to be scared Rich. But make sure it’s not of the wrong thing okay?”

Richie thinks he understands. Sort of.

When Stan leaves Richie is still sitting there in the dark, thinking about it. The club is empty for maybe the first time since he had bought it. After tonight, if he’s very, very lucky it might be busy here again. He gets up and stands in front of the microphone, staring at it, cigarette burning out in his hand. Richie wishes he could be bothered to get properly wasted.

Like the good old days.

“You’re a great crowd.” He tells the empty room. “Really, I can hardly hear myself talk over here. _Shut up_ already.”

The empty bottles on the floor give him a cheer, just for that. They really are a good audience, already laughing from the warmup act. The curtains on the window aren’t so sure, but he’ll have them in stitches by the end of the act.

“So, I have a theory about gay people and comedians.” Richie says into the mic, the old rush coming back. “I think we’re both big massive _liars_.”

There are a few shocked titters from the audience but they’re holding their breath, waiting for him to really get into it.

“See, a comedian will lie as easily as he breathes, it’s _natural _for him. Fish in water.” Richie tells them. “He goes for coffee with a girl and then when he’s up on stage talking about it, it’s his girlfriend with a sock fetish and an eyepatch. Not for any reason; it’s just _funnier_ that way. And if comedians are lying for a _job_ then gay people are lying to _survive_. They go for coffee with a cute guy and then when _they_ tell it the next day it’s that same girlfriend with the eyepatch. Maybe minus the sock fetish depending on company.”

He’s getting his first proper laughs of the night now and Richie smiles into the face of it, easing up and playing with them a little.

“So, my problem then is that I’m a terrible liar.” He announces and then leaves a pause. “I just don’t have the memory for it. I went for this job interview with this edible underwear company, they ask me what I know about them. I tell them my sister in L.A loves their product which is bad on two fronts; firstly, that’s an odd level of sibling familiarity and secondly….”

Big pause here.

“I don’t _have_ a sister.” Richie says and there’s a wave of applause, they’re eating it up. “Then five minutes later I fuck up again and start talking about how my sister buys all of their product right here in New York. So, then I either have two sisters or my first sister had to move all the way here, and then I’m thinking, why did she move? Was it a bad divorce? Maybe she’s had a financial crisis! She spent too much on edible underwear or something, I don’t know. And I’m so preoccupied with this elaborate lie I’ve concocted that I mess up the interview. I don’t get the job and now I’m _really _fucked because I _needed_ that money, I have a broke divorcee sister to support. “

The crowd is going nuts, they’re rolling in their seats and laughing and laughing…and then Richie sees Eddie in the doorway, and he’s _actually_ laughing, a horribly real, non-imaginary laugh.

Richie freezes, feeling all the blood leave his face all at once, and does a literal mic drop.

It’s not turned on so there isn’t a horrific screeching sound, but that shit is _expensive_, so Richie curses and kneels down to pick it up, face burning. This is maybe the most embarrassing moment of his life; this is worse than getting caught with his dick in his hand and he’s not even drunk enough to defend it. 

“I just um, came back for my blazer.” Eddie calls over, looking like he wants to turn around and go away. “It has my wallet. And keys.”

Richie knows for a fact it’s freezing outside, and Eddie’s been wondering around for about three hours in just a shirt, which is honestly impressive dedication to a storm out. Or impressive dedication to not being around Richie which is worse. Richie feels concerned about him and then mad that he’s concerned and then he remembers just how _fucking humiliating_ this situation is.

“So, what, you decided to stick around and laugh at me?” Richie asks him. “Watch the free show?”

“People are supposed to laugh at you dipshit, it’s your _job_.” Eddie snaps. “I laughed because you were being funny.”

“Yeah well.” Richie says, deflating almost instantly. “It was just off-the cuff or whatever. I haven’t workshopped it. You should see my old stuff.”

“It’s funnier than your old stuff.” Eddie mutters and then stalks off to the back office.

Richie stands there, still holding the stupid microphone, watching him leave _again_ and then he thinks about what Stan was saying, about being afraid.

“Wait!” He calls out suddenly, scrambling after him. “Eddie, Eds, wait a second.”

He practically skids down the corridor and finds Eddie in the office, holding the jacket and looking incredibly sad. Then he sees Richie and the anger is back.

“What do you want? You forgot to tell me about how boring my job is?” He asks snidely.

“No.” Richie pants and fuck, he’s out of shape. “No, just calm down for a second-“

“You know what you are?” Eddie says and the line sounds rehearsed, like he’s been thinking about it for the last three hours in the cold. “You’re just another_ funnyman _who got cancelled. “

“I wasn’t _cancelled_, you stubborn asshole!” Richie nearly shouts, because that one _stings_, Eddie makes it sound like he was caught sexually harassing his agent or being racist on Twitter.

Then there’s a sudden gust of cold air and the door slams shut behind him with a bang. Richie leaps back, thinking for a horrible moment that this Stan’s ghost, this is the fucking horror movie and they’re both going to _die_.

“It’s just a door.” Eddie croaks behind him and Richie realizes that in his panic, he’s grabbed Eddie’s arm and pushed him back, between Richie and the desk.

“Sorry, sorry.” Richie says and reluctantly lets him go and steps back, willing his heart to slow down a little.

Eddie brushes himself off, avoiding eye contact.

“I hate to say I told you so but…” he starts.

“You fucking _love_ to say I told you so,” Richie says darkly. “You probably did this on purpose.”

“Yeah, I really wanted to be trapped in a room with you right now. I thought, this night has been going too well, I’m having way too nice of a time, I better spend the rest of it _freezing_ to death with someone who hates me.”

Richie blinks. “I don’t hate you. You hate me, remember?”

Eddie looks annoyed, like he was raring up to go and now Richie has ruined whatever big speech he has planned.

“I’m pissed at you,” he concedes and then goes over to the door and tries to rattle the handle.

Richie turns on the desk lamp and the room is warmer suddenly, just with the golden light. For want of anything better to do he lies down on the sofa and takes out another cigarette.

“You’re not lighting that in here.” Eddie warns him. “We might have to be here till the morning.”

“Fine. Pass me the whiskey then.”

Eddie thinks about it for a minute and then picks up the bottle, making the amber liquid slosh around inside. He unscrews the top and after considering Richie’s coffee mug, takes a drink straight from the bottle. Richie finds it almost depressing how hot he finds it, even now.

“Aren’t you worried about germs?” He asks but Eddie just shrugs and passes the bottle over.

“The alcohol disinfects.”Is all he says and then he goes back to staring at the door.

Richie takes a drink and feels it burn all the way down to his chest.

“I wasn’t cancelled.” He says again, this time more quietly and to the ceiling. “I just messed up. I messed up really badly.”

There’s nothing but silence from Eddie but Richie can’t stop the words coming out now he has them.

“When I found out about the SNL job, I dropped everything in L.A. I thought this was it, the big one. And then on my first day, the first stupid skit…I dropped an F-bomb. Live. And that’s not that bad, a lot of people have done that. But it wasn’t just one. I _panicked,_ Eddie. Really badly. It was like I could only remember swear words. I think they had to pull me off-stage, I don’t even remember, it’s like a fucking fugue state. “

He can see it so clearly in his head, he can feel the humiliation all over again, all the YouTube clips and memes, _Jesus_, the memes.

“And then even that wouldn’t have been enough.” He goes on. “But, I don’t know, it must have pissed off the wrong person, or attracted the wrong kind of attention, because there were all these articles coming out, about how I don’t even write my own stuff, how I’m a liar, how I’m a massive _phoney_ and somewhere in there they found out I was gay so it all kind of snowballed together. For a while it seemed like my name was being tossed around in like twelve different types of discourse, they didn’t know if I was a victim of homophobia or if I was some privileged white guy who should never have gotten that far on no talent. Or if I was just a joke.”

He takes his glasses off and rubs at his eyes and then he feels Eddie shoving up his feet to sit down on the other end of the couch. He moves his legs a little to let him in and then after a moment he’s repayed for his kindness with a socked toe practically being shoved into his face.

“Eddie,” He says with control. “Are you trying to comfort me by sticking your fucking foot in my face?”

“I took my shoes off.” Eddie says, which is fair. “Is it working?”

Richie grabs it like it’s the fucking microphone, because he’s worried about being kicked but then it feels nice, just holding on like this.

“Kind of.” He admits. “Not in a fetish way.”

They sit there for a minute and then Eddie takes back the whiskey and takes another drink.

“I knew you weren’t cancelled.” Eddie admits softly. “I followed a lot of what happened. It was just really unlucky. And stupid. For the record, I do also think it was kind of homophobia.”

Richie blinks at him, processing.

“You watched my stuff, didn’t you?” He realizes out loud. “Eds, are you my_ biggest fan_? Do you want an _autograph_?”

Then he has to grab at the foot again before he gets kicked in earnest.

“I _used_ to be a fan.” Eddie corrects him. “Before I met you.”

_Before you found out what an asshole I am_. Richie thinks. _Before I made out with you for like five seconds and then made fun of you for doing your job. _

“I was wrong to fuck you about.” He says. “To lie to you. I’m sorry. I don’t think your job is boring.”

“Yes, you do.” Eddie says flatly.

“Okay, maybe I used to.” Richie admits. “But I didn’t know you then. I think I get it now. You were afraid right? You used to spend all this time protecting yourself, being protected. Now you want to be the one doing that for other people. The one doing the looking out. Even if it’s, fuck it, fire escapes or whatever.”

Eddie hesitates for a moment and then he nods, just barely.

“Something like that.” He says and then there’s this weird moment of stillness between them where Richie can almost feel the air temperature change.

Richie is suddenly very aware of where he’s touching Eddie, the mess of their limbs on the couch, the feel of Eddie’s ankle against his neck. Eddie’s eyes look very wide and dark; he looks as if he’s holding his breath, just like Richie is. 

“You know I like you a lot.” Richie tells him. “From the moment I met you.”

Eddie smiles, very white and sharp and he’s sitting up, moving closer.

“No, you didn’t. You thought I was annoying. You thought my hat was stupid.” 

“I thought your _rules_ were stupid. I thought your hat was cute.”

“And what did you think of me?” Eddie asks him when he’s practically in Richie’s lap, one hand on the couch arm behind him, looking down.

Richie thinks about saying, _I thought you were hot._ He thinks about saying, _I thought you were something I’ve been looking for my whole life._

“I thought I knew you from somewhere,” he says instead and pulls Eddie down, down where Richie can hold him in the way he’s dreamt of, where he can kiss him properly.

* * *

** _\+ Two Years Later_ **

Richie steps out of the bakery and pulls his coat tight against the snowflakes. Days like this are the only time he misses L.A anymore, days when New York is one big spiky _icicle._

“Before you start, I asked about the type of Danish you like and they were out-“he begins defensively and then he sees that Eddie isn’t waiting for him alone, he’s talking to a tall black guy who looks somehow even colder than Richie.

“Eddie are you picking up strange men on the street again?” he asks and two of them turn around.

“Uh, Richie this is Mike.” Eddie tells him, wrapped up in like five scarves. “He says we used to go to school together?”

“Uh, hi Mike.” Richie says and when he shakes the guy’s hand Eddie gives him a shrug and an _I Don’t Know_ _Either _face.

“_Richie_.” Mike says, almost reverently, staring at Richie’s face in a way that’s a little unnerving. “It’s so, so good to see you again. You have no idea.”

“Uh, I think you might be confused. Me and Eddie didn’t grow up together.” Richie says uncertainly because there are lot of _interesting personalities_ on New York sidewalks and you have to tread a little carefully sometimes. This guy doesn’t look like the type though. He’s wearing sensible shoes and there’s a little pin on his jacket that claims that, _Books Kick Ass!_

Mike looks down at the ring on Richie’s finger and then over at Eddie, shivering and gloveless because he’s too addicted to his phone, and a strange expression comes over his face.

“Of course.” He says and then seems to remember himself. “Of course, my mistake. It was a long time ago now. Nearly thirty years.”

He keeps looking between them, at the rings and Richie kind of frowns, thinking maybe this is gonna be a problem, but the guy doesn’t seem like a homophobe, if anything he looks fucking _overjoyed_.

“Uh, we should probably head over to The Barrens.” Eddie says, putting his hand on Richie’s arm. “It was really nice to run into you though Mike.”

“Yeah.” Mike says. “Yeah, it’s good to see you again Eddie. I’m so happy I-”

He cuts himself off, looking almost in pain.

“Is that a Bill Denbrough novel?” Richie asks him to break the tension, looking at the dog-eared book clutched under Mike’s arm.

“Yeah, it is.” Mike says, watching his face and looking like he’s picking his words carefully. “I’m actually on the way to a signing. It’s why I’m in the city.”

Eddie turns the puppy-dog eyes on him and usually they’re infallible but they’re both already so incredibly _late_. They don’t have time to go wait in a bookstore queue for three hours, not with the new posters being delivered and being overbooked for the third time this week at the club.

“We really should go. Next time, I promise.” Richie tells him regretfully.

Mike is smiling at them, a little watery-eyed, but that might just be from the cold wind.

They leave and make it almost five steps before Eddie seems to make some internal decision and then he’s rushing back, pushing through the people after Mike’s camel coat. Richie watches them talk for a second, stamping his feet against the cold and blowing warm air onto his frozen fingers.

Then Eddie comes back, looking puzzled, his nose bright red in the cold.

“What was that all about?” Richie asks, adjusting his scarf for him so as to block out the chill more securely. If Eddie gets a cold he’s going to _miserable,_ looking up his symptoms on WebMD and freaking Richie out by talking about pneumonia all the time.

“I gave him the address of The Barrens. Told him to come by sometime.” Eddie says, looking deep in thought. “He said he would. But then he said something else, kind of odd.”

“That’s New York for you.” Richie says, thinking that they should probably get to Ben and Bev’s place before the pastries get too frozen. “At least this weirdo knows where to find us now, thanks to you.”

“No, it wasn’t weird like that. He just said…He said, ‘maybe I made the right choice after all’. He said he hadn’t been sure before.”

Richie considers this but if there’s some punchline there, he doesn’t get it.

“What choice?” He wonders out loud.

Eddie shrugs. “We can ask him if we see him again.”

They walk for a little bit and then Richie remembers something that makes him laugh out loud, stopping in the street.

“Hey Eds, guess what?”

Eddie gives him suspicious glare. “What?”

“_You’re _the best choice I ever made.” Richie quotes and Eddie rolls his eyes and kicks slush at him.

“Ugh, can you please _stop,_ I told you I was drunk when I wrote my vows. “

“I’m never gonna stop.” Richie tells him happily. “I’m gonna talk about them forever. When we’re in our retirement home that’ll be the only thing I remember.”

“Do you remember crying like a baby the whole way through?” Eddie grumbles but then he grabs Richie’s scarf and reels him in for a kiss right there in the icy street. The pastries get crushed between them and Eddie’s nose is like an ice cube where it brushes Richie’s cheek but Richie still thinks that if there had been any other way his life could have gone, then he’s so lucky he ended up like this, kissing Eddie in the snow.


End file.
